


Masked Savior Rewrite

by susieq22



Series: Not Requested Fics [15]
Category: Layton Kyouju Series | Professor Layton Series
Genre: Gen, hersh likely has a concussion after all this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-19
Updated: 2019-07-19
Packaged: 2020-07-08 09:26:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19867303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/susieq22/pseuds/susieq22
Summary: One night walking home from Gressenheller, Hershel encounters a group of men. Someone unlikely saves him.





	Masked Savior Rewrite

**Author's Note:**

> A rewrite of [this](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12835917) fic.

The professor’s breath was knocked out of him as he hit the side of the building next to him. A small group of men -- three of them, faces obscured by shadow -- had him cornered. His briefcase, which had tumbled to the ground, was righted, then clicked open, and another had grabbed his fallen hat from the ground, looking it over with mock interest. Hershel moved to straighten himself, and was shoved again. The brick dug into his head and pushed uncomfortably against the rest of his body.

“What have you uncovered?” The one who pushed him asked, accent thick. The briefcase was overturned, papers scattering in the light breeze and out of the group’s sight.

“Those were my students’ --” The professor’s voice was weak, the phrase sounding aborted in his throat.

“There’s worse things you should be thinking about, Professor.” The same man grabbed his hair, forcing his head up. “What have you uncovered about the explosion?” He practically hissed.

Hershel thought back to his notes and frantic research on the explosion that had taken Claire’s life in a bought of desperation. The notes had all led to dead ends, but he had never stopped looking. Not really.

“Why do you want to know?” His voice had gained a bit of strength -- were these the same people that had caused the accident? Blood surged in his ears, adrenaline coursing through him and causing him to panic.

“Just tell us, and it won’t get ugly.” The professor’s head was pounded back against the wall. “ _Now_.”

“I know nothing.” The man’s lips twisted.

“Shame.” Hershel was thrown to the ground, and the professor immediately tried to scramble away. “‘Snot what the notes in your home tell.”

Dread settled itself in Hershel's stomach like a rock. The professor turned, then held his arms up to shield his face as the first blow hit hard enough to send him tumbling to the ground again. He curled up, head tucked between his arms as he was kicked _hard_. Hershel gasped, pain tingling up his left arm and lacing down his body. Another kick in the same place, then another. He choked back a cry, feeling the bone bend with the pressure. His head hurt with the aftershocks of each blow.

Finally, Hershel felt rather than heard the crack as his left arm gave way, and it fell limp to the ground, too painful to hold up any longer. Then, a well-placed kick on the exposed part of his head from his assailants left him seeing stars, vision swimming. Another kick landed on his stomach, and he was gagging, spit flying from his mouth and tears burning in his unfocused eyes. Another kick to the head, one in the ribs. He couldn't breathe. The professor felt his grip on the world slipping away.

_Was he going to die here_?

Through the ringing in his ears and the swirling darkness, Hershel heard the faint rustling of cloth. The assault on him finally stopped, and he felt himself go limp, body twitching and uncurling as he gasped for air, the shouts of the men a sledgehammer to the professor’s head. His swimming vision picked out the three men (just three?), lit dimly by the streetlamp near them. There was a new one, or so Hershel thought, standing between him and the three men.

“I suggest you leave,” the newcomer spoke, voice low and smooth. _Another threat_? Hershel certainly hoped not. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could stay conscious. “We wouldn’t want one of you to suddenly not report back to your boss.”

“Izzat a threat?”

“Of course it is.” A soft flutter, and something heavy fell on the Professor’s body, the tickle of something soft on his face. “And I assure you I will fight back, unlike this professor here.”

Muttering from the three men. “This wasn’t part of our contract,” one of them mumbled. “We was supposed to just take care of the Professor.”

“And I dunno about you guys, that guy looks like a threat.”

“We already got what the Boss wanted. Let’s just go.” The man in front of Hershel tensed slightly as the men moved, walking away from them.

Once they were out of sight, the man turned, kneeling down. A blurred hat and mask made their way into his vision. “Layton, are you still with me?”

Hershel was petrified from pain and fear. All he could do was shiver, teeth chattering between them. His head felt like it might split open, each throb sending a new lace of pain through him.

“He is still conscious.” A new voice, a new accent, hands ghosting over his injuries. “But he has been severely injured. We need to get him to a hospital.”

A string of curse words that seemed to be in another language. Hershel’s head hurt too much to begin to pick them out. The cloth over him shifted, then he was lifted up. He let out a pained whimper.

“It’ll be okay, Layton.” The words almost seemed second nature. His body bobbed up and down -- he was being moved. “You’ll get help very soon. Try to stay with us until then.”

Sleeping was a terrible idea. Even Hershel knew that at this moment, he wouldn’t be waking up for a while if he drifted off. And yet, it became harder and harder to stay conscious when he knew he was _safe_ , he was getting _help_. The world around him faded away as he was laid down on something soft -- where was he?

As Hershel slipped away, he found himself thinking that something was familiar about his savior’s voice.


End file.
